(A DECEMBER TALE)
E. B. WHITE
Old Mr. Halliday, year upon year,
Showed small zest for the season of cheer.
At Santa’s name, at holly’s mention,
He sank in coils of apprehension.
A selfish man in his way of living,
He had no talent for gifts and giving;
The Yule, with its jumble of thistles and figs,
Was a lonely time in his bachelor digs.
Shopping for mistletoe, tinsel, and tree,
Alpheus Halliday still could foresee
Sitting in solitude, feet by the fire,
Opening things that he didn’t desire.
(He determines to correct this and give himself a walloping present.)
One grim noon, on his way to Saks,
Halliday halted, wheeled in his tracks,
Returned to the office, went up in the lift,
And ordered Miss Forbush wrapped as a gift.
Little Miss Forbush, out of Accounting,
Wrapped and sent (with his spirits mounting),
Sweet little Forbush, tidy and teeming,
Wreathed in the light of an old man’s dreaming.
(She is delivered to his home by United Parcel Service and placed under the tree.)
When Halliday wakened on Christmas morn,
He felt at peace and as though reborn.
The window was frosted, the gray clouds drifting,
A heavenly light, and the soft snow sifting.
He shaved and dressed and descended the stair
To see if old Santa had really been there.
Joyous and eager, he knelt at the tree,
Untied the red ribbon, and set his gift free.
He smoothened Miss Forbush and straightened her hair,
Then settled himself in his favorite chair.
Breathless with happiness, Halliday saw
That his gift to himself was a gift without flaw,
And though it was patently fraught with symbols,
It wasn’t a thing you could buy at Gimbel’s.
(She was something, all right.)
All the long morning, under the tree,
She lay there as quiet as quiet could be,
And there was a quality quite serene
About this relaxed and irregular scene.
There was never a hint of play or tussle;
Neither one of them moved a muscle.
The room had a clarity, cool and nice,
As though the two figures were sculptured in ice.
(I wish I had a photograph of it.)
All the long morning, in grateful surmise,
Alpheus Halliday studied his prize.
He seemed to be tracing, in Forbush’s trance,
Patterns of loveliness, strains of the dance;
He seemed to be dreaming and tending the fires
Of old and, I trust, imprecise desires.
He seemed to be seeking to capture again
Certain lost fragrances, woods after rain.
(Miss Forbush very sensibly turns into barley sugar.)
At noon, ere either one had stirred,
A timely miracle occurred:
In silence and with gentle grace
She shed her mortal carapace;
Her form, her face, her eyes, her hair
Were barley sugar now for fair,
And though it seem to you incredible,
Miss Forbush … well, was fully edible.
(Halliday is well known for his sweet tooth.)
Stiffly but hungrily, Halliday rose,
Picked up Miss Forbush, and sampled her toes.
Here was the answer to all his vague wishes:
Little Miss Forbush was simply delicious.
Anxious to linger, yet hot to devour,
He ate his way onward, hour after hour.
The window was frosted, the gray clouds drifting,
A heavenly light, and the soft snow sifting.
Just as he finished her brow and her hair,
Old Mr. Halliday died in his chair.
Too much free sugar and time that’s been spended—
Halliday’s life was most tranquilly ended.
Perfect his passing as sweet was his tooth,
He died from an overindulgence in youth.
(Let us not judge him too harshly in this season of mercy and forgiveness.)
1955